by Lilith Acadia
My 岳母 yuèmǔ visited here,
bearing 波羅麵包 bōluó miànbāo
and memories
of her childhood home like this one,
built when the city was Japanese Taihoku;
the door locks reminded her—
she reached to twist the tiny screw,
to extract it from the carefully aligned
mouth and slide
out into the garden—
she missed her pond
the size of eight tatami mats,
drawing her afterschool daydreams,
her father’s pride
its fish and turtles.
Around the table where you
probably sit
—where all my visitors do,
though I prefer wicker chairs in corners—
she listens to me act out three poems,
nods along,
‘at home they wouldn’t sound the same’
she
looks into the house’s heart,
‘this atmosphere suits literature’;
perhaps her calligrapher father
read verse over breakfast while
she imagined stories
of her fish and turtles.
A tiny jumping spider
greets me mornings over the kitchen sink—
vertical cling to the window;
today a cricket springs before the fridge
as though to chide:
do you deserve breakfast before any writing?
These beings are too small
to displace objects
whose shifts make me start
or cast the shadows that tease
my peripheral vision,
but could they sigh the slight voices I hear—
spirits previous writers forewarned
chant the literary air / heir
that let my 岳母 yuèmǔ listen to poetry
with neither fish nor turtles?
Lilith Acadia wrote “house of fish and turtles” while a writer in residence at Taiwan Literature Base. An assistant professor of literary studies at National Taiwan University, with work in The Kenyon Review, New Orleans Review, Strange Horizons, and elsewhere, Lilith lives in Taipei with her wife and dog. Connect at acadiaink.com or on Instagram and Bluesky @acadialogue.